


Branches

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Series: Lovely, Dark and Deep [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Actual A+ Parenting, Alternate Universe - Lovecraft Fusion, Eldritch Hannibal Lecter, Family, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Wendigo Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14586312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: Dumping place for short, not-chronological snips set in the "Sustenance" world.1. The one where Will is a good boyfriend.2. The one with the badass Mama Lecter.3. Young Hannibal and MIscha, in every sense of the word.





	1. When You Say Crown (I Think Keter)

It takes a few days--all right, Will's lying; it takes one--to realize Hannibal is sticking quite stubbornly to his human form, even now that Will knows what lies beneath it. Beyond it? He's honestly not too clear on that point, just that Hannibal is for some reason only showing the side of himself the whole world knows. Hannibal can't possibly have any remaining concern that Will will run screaming at the sight of him...although if Hannibal promises to catch him, running may be a--well, a topic for later discussion.

 _Focus, Graham_.

It can't be shame, because Hannibal doesn't know the meaning of the word. And they've been...working. On the other thing.

Hannibal has been very patient and very skilled about walking him through it.

So it's not that it takes Will a few days to notice. It's just that it takes the better part of a week for him to break down and ask.

Will catches him in the early morning, after they've crawled out of bed and into a shared shower but before Hannibal can dress. Hannibal is as much a peacock as ever, though he's made concessions to the much warmer climate: thinner fabrics, lighter colors. That doesn't means he'll be eager to ruin a suit he actually deems acceptable if he takes Will's question as encouragement.

Hannibal is just opening the door to the frankly ridiculous walk-in closet when Will steps in close and molds his palm to the small of Hannibal's back. "Hey," he murmurs, chin tucked so his lips brush skin as he speaks. Hannibal hums contentedly, leaning back just enough to better feel him there, and Will wraps his other arm around Hannibal from behind. Sex--with Will specifically, he'd like to think--turns Hannibal into a big, purring cat. He hopes he's not about to break that lazy contentment with what he's about to ask. "I was...sort of wondering. Why you stick to this shape. Now that I know and all. Is it...are you...?"

Is he worried others will see? That Will will see--and change his mind? He was raised by humans...does he not like the reminder that he's not? Will presses his mouth harder to the back of Hannibal's shoulder with a frown, the thumb resting low on Hannibal's stomach ruffling the sleek trail of hair there.

He feels Hannibal's low chuckle all through his own chest.

"All right," Hannibal murmurs, briefly covering the hand on his belly with his own. "Come. Stand just there," he asks as he leads Will to the door of their bedroom, pointing to a spot out in the hall. Will arches a brow, wary of a trick, but goes to stand where he's directed.

Hannibal doesn't hesitate to transform, the transition from human to other as seamless as it was the first time. One moment he's in his familiar shape--a tall, broad-shouldered figure just beginning to acquire the comfortable padding of a man approaching his fifties--and in the next he looms. The contours of ropey muscle softened in his other form lie stark against the bone beneath unnaturally-dark skin, tightening visibly to hold up the weight of a massive crown of antlers as they sprout and spread. Blank white eyes watch him without blinking, but Hannibal's face remains relaxed. He doesn't seem worried about Will's reaction, so if that's not the source of his hesitance, then--

Hannibal takes one step closer, then another. As tall as he is, he has to duck to fit through the doorway, and when he does--

The points of Hannibal's antlers hit the wall to either side with an audible _clack_.

Will's eyes go wide, seeing the problem in an instant: not distrust or discomfort but simple logistics. He opens his mouth to let Hannibal know he gets it, but then Hannibal tilts his head, cheek nearly resting on his shoulder, and--

 _Clack_.

At any other time, Will would be embarrassed by the helpless, high-pitched noise he makes, somewhere between a surprised squeak and a strangled giggle. He cuts it off savagely--he's not going to laugh; he's _not_ \--but then Hannibal turns his head and tries to edge through sideways, and--

 _Clack_.

Will loses it, laughter bursting from him so hard it doubles him over, leaves him staggering back to brace against the wall to say upright. "Oh my God," he gasps out, one arm wrapped around his middle as the other gropes along the wall for purchase. "I thought...I thought maybe you...oh, Jesus."

Hannibal straightens with a smile...and calmly shuts the door between them.

Will gapes for maybe ten seconds before jolting away from the wall.

"Hannibal?" he calls through the heavy paneling, rapping nervously even as he tries the knob. It turns, but the door doesn't open; Hannibal must be holding it shut. "Oh, come on! I wasn't laughing at you! Okay, I was laughing at what you were doing--but you knew I would! You made me stand in the hall!"

Through the door he hears Hannibal's soft chuckle, not angry at all, the bastard. Will rolls his eyes. That doesn't stop him from trying the door again.

This time Hannibal lets him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the title is a SCP Foundation reference.


	2. The Sowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reality is more like a fairytale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't call it a dumping-place if there's only one chapter, right?

Simonetta Sforza-Lecter is a woman used to getting what she wants. Top marks in school, acceptance to the best universities, invitations to all the right parties. When at one such gathering she makes the acquaintance of the dashing Count Lecter, she pursues him with no thought of failure until he falls, bemused but delighted, into her arms.

"My Diana," he calls her through the first charmed years of their marriage. His friends hate him cheerfully for having the good sense to be snared by such a beauty, though they're all a little in awe of her drive.

"Her family ruled Milan for centuries," they remind each other, as if she needs explaining. "On both sides."

Her husband smiles and shrugs when asked if he finds it difficult to live with such a _decisive_ personality. "Fair Artemis' arrows strike where they will."

"Don't you mean Aphrodite? Or Cupid, actually?"

He laughs, and with a wide, white grin, says, "Love can be fickle. The spoils of the hunt, you keep."

***

Count Lecter has never seen his wife in tears and doubts he ever will. Her eyes flash when she's wounded, and she bares her teeth at grief. When she returns from the doctor with her perfect lips curled into a delicate snarl, only he can read the hurt that lurks beneath.

"What is it, my Diana?" he asks, taking both her hands in his and pressing them to his heart.

"More like your Guinevere," she snaps, and it all comes pouring out: the complacency that turned to worry, then suspicion; the carefully-timed seductions he'd never questioned, grateful as always to have remained her favorite prey. In the moment of realization, his sorrow is mainly for her. He wants children, of course--they've talked about it for years--but he aches to know his darling's own body is the first opponent she can't defeat by will alone.

"Well," he says gingerly, "there are always surrogates. I could--"

But, in a turn that surprises them both, he can't. His doctor delivers the news with cringing sympathy, quick to shove pamphlets on the joys of adoption into his hands. "For when you tell your wife," the doctor explains with a nervous smile.

He thanks the man and makes a note to acquire a new physician.

Simonetta listens attentively as he explains the situation, plans already taking shape behind her eyes. "It complicates matters, I suppose," he admits, uncertain what conclusions she's coming to and hoping only to tempt her into moderation. "Not so much the title, really, but the trappings of it; it'd all go to the next male of the blood first. But, well, there is my brother."

"I've met your brother," Simonetta scoffs. "He doesn't strike me as a man eager for children--whereas Murasaki might well challenge us for them. No, there's only one option I can see that won't risk our child fighting for his inheritance should the worst happen."

"Darling," the Count chides gently, "you can't just _steal_ a child."

"Oh," Simonetta says, pleasantly surprised. "Two options, then."

"My love--"

This time she takes his hands, raising each in turn to her lips, blue eyes spearing his without blinking. "Will you agree to abide by the terms of whatever pact I strike?"

His hands clench tight around hers before he swallows his fear and gentles his grip. "What do you intend to do?"

"I've heard tales of the forests around our home, of She who walks there and Her innumerable children. It seems to me," Simonetta says with a sharp, fierce smile, "if you're going to beg a boon of fertility, look to the one best able to grant it."

He can deny her nothing, of course.

"Do as you will," he promises, "so long as you come back to me."

"I will," she swears, leaning up to kiss him lightly on the lips.

" _With_ your mind," he insists, trailing after her as she goes to fetch her walking boots, her rifle and her sacrificial knife.

"Of course."

"I love you," he calls after her, watching from the front steps as she strides determinedly into the trees.

He sighs, his own eyes prickling with unshed tears. He'd accompany her, but he knows how these things go. Alone, mother to would-be mother, his love is almost certain to prevail. With him in tow, well. That becomes a different story, and he's not so great a fool as to force her to decide which sacrifice to choose.

He'd rather not deal in sacrifices at all, but some things can't be helped.

***

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and also far too quiet. Little moves beneath the branches, but the silence is sleepy, not fearful. Simonetta knows it would've been easier to wait until nightfall, that she'd have been far more likely to find what she seeks by moonlight, but whatever advantage she manages to claw for herself, she means to keep.

She also knows better than to approach one of the Old Ones empty-handed. She's grateful beyond measure that her husband made no offer of assistance--a _willing_ sacrifice would be an insult to keep--but that leaves her with few ideas for what to offer in his place. What sort of gift would tempt the mother of a thousand to hear her prayer?

Her eyes narrow when she spots the stag: a fine old buck a little past its prime, heavy with muscle but favoring one foreleg. It comes to her suddenly that a thousand young means a thousand hungry mouths to feed, and she knows just what to do.

The stag is a lovely specimen, but all she sees in that moment is meat.

She fells it cleanly with a single shot to the head. It dies almost instantly, without fear or suffering; she can only hope the intended recipients won't find the fare too bland.

Up close the beast is more massive than she thought, far too heavy for her to drag. She hesitates only a moment before drawing the knife she'd brought to make sacrifice with. If she's lucky, intent will be enough to draw the one she seeks to her. If not, she can always take the heart.

She's up to her wrists in gore when stealthy movement from the corner of her eye draws her notice. Whatever it is, it's small and dark--two small, dark somethings, peering out from behind a tree. One gives a faint, high whine that's shushed by a breathy growl as both figures freeze.

Making no sudden moves, Simonetta pulls her hands free of the carcass, the stag's heart cupped in her palm, and slowly turns her head.

They're odd little things, naked and bald as babes, with blank, white eyes like boiled eggs. The bigger of the two is black as carbon, with two small buds like a goatling's horns protruding from the crown of his head. He has one arm wrapped protectively around his sister's shoulders from behind, ignoring the way she mouths at his arm, as reflexive as a human child sucking her thumb. Bark-brown, she sports two little buttons in place of her brother's growing antlers, and while neither of them have an ounce of baby fat on them, where the brother has the beginnings of wiry muscle stretched on his skinny bones, the sister just looks starved.

Swallowing a rush of pity that threatens to close her throat, Simonetta smiles at them closed-mouthed. "Hello, there," she says quietly, keeping perfectly still as they flinch at the sound of her voice. "It's all right. I'm not here to hurt you. Are you hungry?" She has no idea whether they understand her at all, but holding out the heart she just harvested should need no translation.

The brother hesitates, but the little girl's whine and the ferocious rumble of her stomach spur him to action. Darting forward, he snatches the heart from Simonetta's hand, but instead of stuffing it into his mouth, he skitters back to his sister. Shoving the still-warm hunk of muscle into her hands, he curls over her, growling softly, as if he expects someone to come along and steal her food.

Jaw clenched, Simonetta draws her empty hand back as it slowly curls into a fist. She's doubly glad now that she brought her knife, because if anyone, _anything_ , lays a single finger on these children, she'll rip them open and hang their guts from the trees, so help her God.

The boy cocks his head at her curiously, arms loosening a little as his sister gnaws contentedly at her meal.

"You're a good brother," Simonetta murmurs. This time neither of them flinch. "Would you like to come home with me? Both of you. You'd be safe there. And fed."

The boy looks from her to the carcass and back. It's a risk turning away from them, but she doesn't care. When she offers him the stag's liver, the boy creeps forward, accepting it politely from her hands. Retreating back to his sister, he watches her intently as he eats, but she senses no threat in his unwavering stare.

After he finishes, he licks his fingers clean with the fastidiousness of a cat, then glances briefly down at his sister. Turning back to Simonetta, he cocks his head, blinks once, and _changes_ : skin paling out to a healthy pink, irises rising out of the milky depths of his eyes. They're more red than brown, and his scalp is still smooth, only one antler bud vanishing in his imperfect attempt at mimicry, but Simonetta's heart lurches in her chest at the _possibilities_.

The little girl looks up, sees her brother's transformation, and breaks into a bloody, sharp-toothed grin of perfect sweetness. She mimics him just as effortlessly, down to the single horn, but when Simonetta's breathless gasp draws her attention, she sprouts a wild tangle of baby-fine curls.

"Do you have names?" Simonetta asks, heart thumping hard against her ribs. She was supposed to make a pact, but maybe this is her answer. Maybe her sacrifice has been accepted by proxy. Or maybe She has too many children already to care what happens to these two.

The girl looks expectantly to her brother, who stares back at Simonetta with helpless consternation, as if he understands but lacks the vocabulary to reply.

"Then you can be Mischa," she says to the girl, voice cracking on the name chosen years before, this for a daughter and that for a son. "If that's all right. And you...you can be Hannibal."

They don't answer with words, but when she leaves the woods hours later, it's with Mischa balanced on her hip, Hannibal's small hand clasped trustingly in her own.

***

Hannibal wisely holds his tongue as Will storms into the bedroom, the rage Will's been bottling up so as not to frighten his newest stray blazing free at last. The dog, fed and freshly-bathed and stitched up by Hannibal's own hand, lies fast asleep in a nest of blankets in the den, blissfully unaware of the fury her treatment has inspired. As for the men tormenting her, they'll keep until the altercation becomes a local legend, then forgotten: the foreigner with the scarred face and bleeding heart who stole a dog no one wanted in the first place.

Will peels off his shirt, stuck to his skin from the dog's unplanned bath, and hurls it across the room. Though he knows better, Hannibal smiles. The carefully-masked snarl, the minute trembling of fisted hands, the sudden shift to decisive action that swept Hannibal along in its wake...the Will of the last few hours is so achingly familiar, Hannibal has no defense against the nostalgia that rises up.

"My mother would have loved you," he says before he can think better of it, wondering too late if he should school his expression as Will turns on him. "The human one, I mean. You remind me of her in many ways."

To his surprise, rather than finding a new target, Will's anger gutters in the wake of Hannibal's confession. Scowl turning uncertain, the tight clench of Will's jaw eases as he traps his lower lip between his teeth. Curiosity wars with concern, but at Hannibal's encouraging look, the former prevails. "Can you tell me about her?" Will asks, holding out a hand that invites Hannibal to come to him, as if he and not Will needs comforting right now.

Hannibal, no fool, closes the distance between them at once. Any excuse to pull Will into his arms is a good one.

"What did you want to know?" Hannibal asks, nosing at Will's damp curls. He smells of dog and blood and hot, musky rage, and though Will squirms a little in embarrassed awareness of that fact, he doesn't pull away.

"Anything. I've always wondered at the sort of people who'd stumble across two eldritch beings and just think 'babies!'"

Will sounds nervous, as if he's afraid he's overstepped his bounds or that his statement will be misconstrued, but Hannibal chuckles. Where does he even start? With their patient tutelage in how to pass for human without ever implying they were lesser, their natures undesirable? With the games he and his sister were taught, the gentle insistence that they could _be_ children if they wanted, that nothing dire would happen if Hannibal wasn't constantly on the watch for danger or their next meal? Their mother's impassioned defense, and the unshakeable bedrock of their father's support.

He'll tell Will all these things and more if he truly wants to know, but for now he presses his lips to the crown of Will's head, overtaken by an unexpected wave of sadness. He misses them still.

"They were good people," he says as Will's arms tighten, pulling him closer, and that is familiar too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternately known as, "OMG, Hannibal, You Married Your Mother," "All His Weirdness He Learned From the Humans," and "'Babies!' is the Only Correct Response, Actually."


	3. The Reapers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Hannibal and Mischa, in all senses of the word.

At first he is wordless, nothing but hunger and a collection of sensations: _warmth, quiet, contentment._ He doesn't realize the hunger is conditional, that the warmth is another body curled into the hollow made by his own, that his contentment hinges on the small space of safety that rings him about.

Then the darkness unfurls, rises with a bone-popping stretch and strides away, uncaring of the chill that rushes in in its absence. He blinks into the shadows, staring after the fading sounds of rustling and snapping, feeling small and exposed.

The little ball of warmth he's huddled around pushes into his belly as if trying to crawl inside him. It whimpers, faint and strained. It smells like him and also of the sheltering dark, so he holds it more tightly.

They wait together for the darkness to return, but instead the world grows brighter. The back of his neck prickles as formless knowing settles over him: it would not be good to be seen.

He sits up. The little shape he's been curled around is the same color as the tall things that surround them. That gives him the idea to pick it up, carry it to a hollow where one of the tall things splits at the bottom into curving shapes that burrow and dig and drop out of sight. The hollow is full of dry bits of stuff that crackle beneath their weight, and their arrival sends small things with many legs skittering away in every direction.

Little-Him grabs a fat, shiny black one and stuffs it in its mouth, only to make a face and spit it out a moment later. Curious--why did it do that?--he pinches the hard back of a scurrying thing between his fingers and lifts it to his nose for a thoughtful sniff. _YES_ , says the gaping pit in his middle with a startlingly loud rumble. Little-Him jumps at the sound, colorless eyes rounding, and makes a high, breathless sound that curls the corners of his mouth up.

He puts the futilely-paddling thing he caught into his mouth without thinking, then scrapes it off his tongue with a grimace. The crunch was oddly satisfying, but the _legs_ \--!

The aching hole inside him complains, vocally, Little-Him echoing it back with a soft whine. Hungry. He's hungry, and if he is, then Little-Him must be hungry as well. Surely there must be nicer things to eat, with fewer nasty legs.

He huffs when Little-Him tries to follow him out of the hollow, his hackles crawling with unease at the thought. Little-Him is half his size, small enough he could crunch it up like one of the little skittering things, and he doesn't want it crunched up. It smells like him, so it must be _his_.

_Not safe_ , he tries to communicate through wordless growls and gentle nudges, and it seems to understand. Sitting back on its heels, it blinks at him forlornly. It doesn't want him to go. _I'll return. Stay._

When he's sure it won't follow, he creeps out into the light, taking cautious sniffs of the air. There are dry things that tickle his nose, wet things that stick in the back of his throat, and somewhere close a sleepy, savory warmth.

He follows that final scent, down a little hill and up one of the tall things, his short, sharp claws digging in deep. There's another sort of hollow halfway up, and though he can't see much from where he clings, what's inside smells delicious.

He sticks his hand inside and yelps as something sharp and strong closes around his finger. Yanking his hand back, he nearly loses his grip as something comes with it: a brown and grey _something_ that falls, lands with a crack, and lies still. He stares down at it for a long moment, licking the blood from his wounded finger, almost afraid to try again. Then he thinks of Little-Him waiting and gathers up his courage.

There are small, smooth things inside that squirm as he fishes around, but they're warm and soft and only have four legs, so he balls them all up in a single fist and makes his way back down, careful not to drop any. The big one lies where it landed, and he takes that one too--gingerly, by the tail, in case it tries again to bite.

He gives the soft things to Little-Him, who eats them up quick, and takes the big thing for himself. The soft pelt that covers the thing is tricky, and the tasty part beneath requires him to rip and pull and tear, but it's _good_.

He offers the softest bits to Little-Him, but Little-Him leans into his side, sharp teeth bared in a wide, careless yawn.

When he finishes eating, he licks his face and fingers clean, buries the bloody pelt to hide the smell, and curls up around Little-Him in their little nest, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

***

It's nearly dark when they're awakened by a creaking and snapping, and slow, muffled thuds that grow louder as they approach. Little-Him presses hard against him, shivering, their safe, warm hollow flooded with the bitter reek of fear. He stays perfectly still, curled over Little-Him as best he can, barely daring to breathe as the thudding outside fades into a shuffle, then silence. Is the thing still out there? Is it waiting for them? Does it know they're there?

Something sighs, and as the wind shifts, he catches the scent of something familiar, something _good_.

The sheltering darkness. It's returned.

He gathers his courage first, shushing Little-Him and creeping cautiously into the open, claws sinking nervously into the mulch as he stays hunched on all fours. If he's wrong, he may have time to snatch Little-Him and run.

The thing that fills the clearing is massive, covered all over in a thick black pelt that goes fuzzy at the edges, like the wispy, white shapes in the sky. Even in the gloom, his eyes are keen, but it seems to him that the creature is both here and not here, both a thing and a _hole_. A twisted nest of antlers rise out of its skull, and he knows with wordless certainty that though he might fall into the creature's half-there bulk if he gets too close, the points of that tortured snarl will _always_ be sharp.

The eyes that fix upon him are shockingly wrong, alien, _not his_. They're yellow where they should be white, with a weird dark streak drawn right through the middle, almost from corner to corner. He whines low in his throat, confused. It's the dark, their dark, the dark they came from--so why does it look so different?

It makes him feel wrong inside himself--if he's seen, he should match; safety lies in belonging--so when he feels the strange flutter in the pit of his stomach, he lets it grow and spread. His skin sprouts a layer of fur, nearly as soft and fine as what covered the little squirming things he gave to Little-Him. He twitches at the strangeness as his skull rearranges itself, trying to sprout the twin of the other's heavy crown. He blinks, and the colors of the world grow strange.

_Hn_ , the creature grunts in quiet amusement, neither sound nor silence, though its voice sets the little nubs on the top of his head to buzzing. _Your father's child, indeed_.

_What_? he asks, though the meaning is abruptly _there_ , like it's been hiding inside his skull all along. Father. The knowing-self that came before and helped spark his own.

Yellow eyes slide away as Little-Him crawls hesitantly out to join him, leaning into him with its face half-pressed into his side. A slow blink: the dark thing is surprised.

_And the little one. Not eaten_?

He growls at the thought, pulling Little-Him closer with one arm. _It's mine_.

The darkness snorts. _**She** is your sister, boy. And not likely to survive on her own. A wise child would be grateful for the meat_.

Even as he's growling louder, he's flooded with new knowledge. A sister. She. Different from him, but not. He's a spark; she could shelter her own small creatures someday.

He blinks up at incurious yellow eyes and knows.

_You're our mother_. He cocks his head with a frown. _How do I know this_?

Their mother's eyes gleam with new interest; he's done something strange again. _You know because you know. You **question** because of your father's influence, I suppose. My children rarely concern themselves much with whys_.

He huddles thoughtfully in on himself as his skin slicks smooth again, the world's colors resuming their sharp edges. The shape of his skull remains the same.

_Father_ , he echoes. _Children?_ Small things, like him and his sister. _Will we meet them_?

_Your father's a wanderer_ , their mother says with a shrug, shifting to curl her huge body up in a tighter ball. _You might see him someday. You might not. As for your siblings_ , she says around a yawn, _best leave that until you're older. You won't like them much as you are_.

The sense of their mother's presence winks out in the next instant, and though he can still see her colossal bulk, his eyes try to convince him it's only a rock, a small hill shaggy with moss, at one with the earth beneath it. When his sister tries to creep closer to investigate, he pulls her back. Part of him wants to join her--wants to _rejoin_ the hungry void that spat them out--but he doesn't think it will weave them together. He thinks he'd just be eaten, and he doesn't want to be eaten.

He's not sure their mother would notice, or if she did, that she'd care.

He glances down at his sister, who peers up at him trustingly from the shelter of his arms, and tries to see what their mother sees. He can't. His sister isn't meat.

If she won't survive on her own, he'll just have to keep her with him.

***

It's as if there's a world inside his skull to match the world outside, knowable only in the instant he needs to _know_. Once he's got the trick of it, he only has to see a thing to comprehend its nature, but there's no satisfaction in it. He could melt seamlessly through life with no thought at all, concerning himself only with the source of his next meal, but he's plagued by a restlessness that can't be appeased by motion alone. It's not enough to know that this meat is prey and that one will hunt him if it can. If his mind could rumble like his belly, it would.

There's no one to tell him how strange he is in his discontent. They see their mother only rarely, and she doesn't concern herself much with them. His sister is as curious as he is, but she's contented with small things: a full belly, a warm place to sleep, shifting to mimic him as he tries on shape after shape. He's not good at many of them, his body stubbornly insisting on two arms, two legs. He can manage fur, but it's sparse, and he can't grow a tail at all.

His sister rolls in her lips and says nothing to his latest attempt at a fox, but her eyes are bright with laughter. He sighs.

_I know_ , he says as red washes black, fur traded again for hairless skin. He doesn't understand. What good is being able to change his shape if he's so bad at it?

In the clearing at the foot of the tree they're perched in, the lone red fox he's been attempting to mimic sniffs the air suspiciously. It growls, but its meaning-- _I bite_ \--is muddled, nothing at all like when his sister speaks.

_Food_? his sister asks hopefully.

He rubs his cheek against the top of her head in agreement. Hunting is much easier than blending, and a fox is just small enough for him to manage on his own.

He drops out of the tree claws first, latching on tight as the fox yips and tries to squirm away. Whipping its head around, it snaps its jaws shut so close to his right eye he nearly loses his grip as he jerks his face aside. Fast as it is, he's faster; once he gets his teeth in, it's over quick.

Though his own stomach snarls at him, he doesn't dig in immediately. Straightening as he turns, he looks up to track his sister's progress as she clambers down after him. She's nimble, but still so small. He moves closer as her tiny claws begin to slip in a cloud of bark-dust, reaching his arms up for her to fall into.

The only reason he doesn't drop her at the stealthy crunch of leaves at his back is because his first instinct is always to pull her closer.

Falling back a step as he spins around, he stills in wide-eyed surprise. Black like him, with the same parts as him, the lean figure has their mother's amber eyes and a growing snarl of antlers, much larger than their own modest nubs. Well-muscled limbs are draped in a thick covering of fur, like their mother's but not: solid as an animal's pelt, with no whiff of the depthless dark hiding beneath the musk. Half again as tall as him, their sibling smells mostly of their mother, only a little of something new and strange. A different father, perhaps.

The freshly-killed fox dangles carelessly in their sibling's left hand.

He frowns at the theft. _That's not yours_. Hunger is a constant companion, but it's worse for his sister. He needs to eat to hunt for her, but no matter how much of his kills he saves for her, her bones still show through her thin brown skin. She needs that meat; their sibling is big enough, strong enough, to get his own.

_You can have it_ , their sibling says, mouth stretching in a smile that shows off all his teeth. _I'll take that instead_.

A sharp chin jerks so there's no mistake. Those yellow eyes are fixed on his sister.

_No_ , he says, arms pulling tight. _She's mine_.

_Then you should've eaten her already_.

He takes one step back, another, narrowly missing the tree trunk at his back. His sister freezes in his arms, the stark lines of her ribs stilled along with her breath as she shrinks against his chest, as if she could crawl inside him. If he could, he'd draw her in and keep her safe.

Tossing the fox carcass aside, their sibling stretches wide a grin full of promise.

He runs.

Birds startle from the branches overhead as he tears through the undergrowth, diving headlong into the brush and shunning the open paths. He's fast, but their sibling is faster. Their only hope lies in turning his smaller stature to their advantage.

Shifting his sister to rest on his hip in a one-armed grip, he uses his free hand to claw aside thin branches and vines, ignoring the green whips that slice open his skin. Mimicry is the last thing on his mind, but as desperation mounts, his bones turn fluid, twisting in and out of more agile shapes as need demands. The clamor of pounding footsteps and the crackle of splintering wood at their heels never falters, gaining on them breath by breath.

His sister shrieks in surprise when he lurches up onto two legs again and tugs her free of his neck, but she clamps arms and legs around him gamely when he swings her around to cling to his back. _Hold tight_ , he tells her grimly, a reckless plan taking shape as he crests a hill, the trees ahead thinning to show glimpses of a solid wall of sunlight. _Tight as you can_.

She nods against the side of his neck as she buries her face there, tiny claws digging fresh welts he also ignores. Hands unburdened, he drops to all fours again and puts every ounce of strength into running, faster and faster, and doesn't hesitate when he bursts from the trees and over the crumbling edge of the earth that drops sheer and straight to a half-dry river below.

Eyes shut and buried, his sister tenses at their sudden weightlessness, the dizzying spin as he twists even as he falls. She gasps once, a hitch he feels through his spine, and is nearly ripped away from him when his scrabbling claws snag on the tangle of roots spilling over the cliff-edge, bringing them to a sudden stop. Dirt and dry fragments of leaves and grass shower down over their heads as his hands slip. Smooth and hard as stone, the roots he clutches at peel a layer of skin away his palms until his claws dig in deep enough to anchor them. He can hardly breathe as his sister hugs him tighter, but breathing is secondary to relief.

Falling past them with a growling, frustrated roar, their sibling flails for the same handholds and misses. Heavier, with more momentum behind his strides, he arcs wide and plummets straight down, struggling furiously to right himself.

They don't wait to see the outcome. Scrambling up to the top of the cliff, he sucks down desperate gulps of air and picks a direction at random, bolting as fast as his legs will carry them. They've stuck close to the place where the darkness first uncurled around them, but it's no longer safe here. They need a new place, somewhere they can hide.

_It's all right_ , he promises as he runs, grateful he doesn't need breath to speak. His hands hurt too much to bend himself into another shape, and on two legs he feels frighteningly slow. _I won't let them take you_.

His sister says nothing, but she doesn't let go, trusting him to see them both through.

***

He soon realizes just how lucky they've been to have gone so long undiscovered. Away from that little pocket of safety, their siblings are everywhere, and they often hunt in packs. Their second escape is no less harrowing than the first; after that he learns to move with more caution, alert to every rustle of leaf and shift in the breeze.

Though they avoid their siblings when they can, they still catch glimpses of the others, and what they see is confusing. Even the ones that band together are apt to turn on one another at any moment. When they appear evenly matched, a truce may hold for a time, but let one take injury or come upon one larger or weaker than themselves, and it usually ends in a fight. He doesn't understand. None of them smell perfectly of each other, not like him and his sister, but they all smell like kin. Isn't that enough?

He wonders until they find their mother again, just after dawn, but while he wants desperately to go question her, something holds him back. An unfamiliar smell clings to her, or--no, she's wrapped _around_ that scent, and as she shakes off her shadowy guise and lumbers to her feet, she leaves behind two small shapes curled together on the grass.

He stares at their two newest siblings, startled to see how small they are, how vulnerable. Nut-brown, they're covered with a short, fuzzy layer of cub fur, their heads already sporting the twin nubs of budding antlers. One sister is larger than the other, and that's the one who opens her eyes first. Lifting her head, she sniffs the air, pulls a little away from the smaller shape she's curled around, and stares with a puzzled frown.

He knows what's about to happen even before their sibling opens her mouth. He pulls his sister around to tuck her face into his stomach, even though it's far too late. She's just like him--of course she knows, even before the scream and the first wet, ripping tears--but she doesn't have to _see_.

He sees it all in her place, eyes open until the very end, as meat is stripped and small bones splinter. Their sister's spindly limbs and narrow torso lengthen, filling out before his eyes. Halfway through her meal, she snarls and shakes her head as if stung. The fur growing in plush all over her body mats down damply around her antlers as sharp shards of bone poke through the skin, branching upwards.

Her blood is black, and seeing it wakes a strange, weightless surge in the pit of his stomach. His own blood is red.

Different blood, different eyes, different scents. Different instincts. Maybe he's only mimicking his kin.

Maybe he doesn't belong anywhere, except with his sister.

They sneak away while their sibling is distracted, careful to leave no trace. If their sibling smells them, she'll hunt them, and now he knows why. To grow bigger. Stronger. Much, much faster than they can on their diet of squirrels and rabbits and foxes.

**_A wise child would be grateful for the meat_**.

His sister's hand is so tiny in his.

_Would you be stronger if you ate me_? she asks without looking at him, letting him help her over the caved-in hulk of a fallen tree.

_No_ , he insists, and they both freeze, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her waist to lift her down. For the first time, their strange, sourceless knowing is sharp-edged, the sheer wrongness of his reply hitting them both like a blow. He's never deliberately spoken a falsehood before, and they blink at each other solemnly as awareness settles over them. Awareness and something else: a horrible, gaping hole in the pit of his stomach as he contemplates what his life would be like after. He's never been singular, a thing with no answering half. Her comforting presence at his side is the only life he knows. _No_ , he says again, chin firming stubbornly. _I would_ not _be stronger. I'd just be alone_.

They take a moment to digest this new thing as well, the ghost of an alien loneliness sitting like a rock in their chests.

She curls up that night in the hollow he makes for her of his own wiry limbs, but while she drops off immediately, he stares blindly into the dark and wonders. Not about what her flesh would taste like. Not how it would feel to walk confidently amongst their kin, feared by all.

He wonders whether she'd grow tall and strong at last if he just fed her the right sort of meat.

***

As he grows more cunning, their siblings grow cruel. If they can't catch him, they'll settle for stealing his kills or startling his prey before he can pounce. There's little time to hunt as it is; he spends most of his days looking for safe places to catch a few hours of sleep. They eat his few paltry kills on the move, the short rations and broken sleep wearing on them both. As wary as he is, hunger is the one trap he can't escape.

His sister grows thinner by the day, her skin and brittle, staring bones rippling almost _too_ quickly when she joins him in their now-rare games of mimicry. There's so little left of her, there's hardly anything to rearrange.

There comes a morning when he wakes hours later than he meant to and, panicked, nearly gives away their hiding spot in an old tree dense with empty crows' nests. He half expects to hear mocking laughter and the scrabble of claws on bark as their hunters clamber up in chase of them, but there's only birdsong, the creak of branches, the slow rhythm of his sister's breath.

They haven't slept past dawn for so long that it's become strange, but they've traveled far enough now that the forest itself feels unfamiliar. The trees here are younger, with thinner trunks, the canopy punched open to admit broad pools of sunlight. Maybe they've become too much trouble for their siblings to bother with. Maybe they've only left one danger behind for another.

Nudging his sister with his nose, he smiles at her sleepy grumble and waits for her to wake.

The woods they travel through that morning remain quiet, though at times they hear the far-off echo of strange sounds: the rhythmic strike of one hard thing against another, the clamor of a beast with a fox's bark, only deeper. Here and there in the distance he spots lakes of open grass where there are no trees at all and makes a conscious decision to avoid them. They'd be easy to spot there. Better to stick to the trees.

They see little in the way of prey as they walk, and nothing large enough to fill their aching bellies. He should be hunting as they go, but the drive to put as much distance between them and their siblings as possible is stronger.

When he sees the stag picking its careful way through the vine-choked brush, he thinks longingly of the feast it would be, his mouth flooding with hot saliva. It's a useless dream: it's favoring one foreleg, but it's many, many times larger than him, and he doesn't have the weight to bring it down. But if he could--

A sharp clap like a peal of thunder rings out, shocking every thought from his head. Muscles locked panic-tight tight, he watches the stag startle, its head jerking to the side rather than up. He expects it to flee the noise, but instead it topples to the ground in a graceless heap. He smells blood, brain, a mineral sharpness that stings his nose, and--

Something different. Something new.

A creature he's never seen before comes striding out of the trees on two legs, upright like their siblings but bare of fur, like them. Its skin is a pale pink like little mouse feet, mostly hidden by strange, thick coverings in muted forest tones. The fur on its head is long, so deep a brown it's almost black, its dark eyes fierce and focused. It carries a long, sturdy object in both hands-- _weapon_ , the knowledge trickles in, and oh, why did he never think beyond his own teeth and claws?--and steps almost lightly enough for stealth as it approaches the dead stag.

It doesn't seem to be aware of them at all, but he can't trust that it's not a trick. The creature is dangerous, kills in ways he doesn't yet understand. He doesn't care to cross it, but surely it can't eat _all that_. Maybe there will be enough left over for them.

He watches closely as the creature draws a thin, shining thing from its coverings and kneels beside the stag, pushing up its coverings to bare its forearms. The patterns scratched down the length of the shining thing pull at him, make him want to get closer, examine them properly. When it plunges deep into the body of the stag, something changes in the air: a scent, a sense of purpose, of possession. The stag's body is no longer only meat. It is _meant_. He has no idea what it is meant for.

The smell of blood grows stronger as the creature tears through hide to the soft insides. It seems to be looking for something in particular, but he can't guess what, distracted by the dizzying clench of his empty stomach. He stands his ground, mostly hidden behind the trunk of a tree, but hunger has made him sluggish. He isn't fast enough to stop her when his sister breaks, creeping from cover on trembling legs, one unwilling step after another. He can only follow her, looping an arm around her shoulders to gently still her in place.

The creature has the stag's heart in hand when it slowly turns its head to look at them, but it doesn't bare its teeth or growl to warn them off its kill. Maybe...maybe it won't care if they steal just a taste, so long as they're respectful. Maybe it has as little idea what to do with them as they do about it.

Something changes in the creature's eyes when they slide to fix on his sister, bright curiosity softening with an emotion he thinks he should recognize. The creasing of its forehead, the tightness around eyes and mouth...the creature looks the way he feels when he lets himself think too long on how thin the arms that circle him have become.

It smiles at them then, and he has to wonder: do all things that go on two legs make that face? Their siblings do, but it's always a threat. When his sister smiles, it means happiness.

Then the creature open its mouth, spilling strange sounds.

"Hello, there."

He and his sister flinch back, startled though the creature's voice is soft. That...that was a greeting, as clear in meaning as their mother's voice.

"It's all right," the creature says with noise alone, the echo-place behind and above his eyes still and silent. "I'm not here to hurt you. Are you hungry?" it asks, holding the stag's heart out as if offering it to them.

_Yes_ , he says without thinking, but the creature's face doesn't change, as if it hasn't heard him. That gives him pause--the beasts he hunts can't hear him either--but his sister's soft whine cuts through his indecision. If this is a trap, better he spring it than her.

He darts forward, snatching the still-warm hunk of meat from the creature's hand, retreating back to his sister before he can be grabbed or have his own belly slit open. He half expects the creature to give chase, steal the heart back when he gives it to his sister; he's heard plenty from his siblings on the folly of keeping such a weak thing alive.

The creature's hand curls slowly into a fist as it drops, its face doing something terrible that he knows from the inside out. It's angry, but not at them.

He cocks his head, his stomach doing a strange thing he doesn't yet understand, but it feels like tomorrow, and need, and possibilities. _Do you hear me at all_? he asks, the bright feeling below his ribs dimming when he gets no response.

The creature watches his sister eat for a moment with fierce satisfaction before tipping its eyes up to his. "You're a good brother," it says, voice softer than rabbit fur. "Would you like to come home with me? Both of you. You'd be safe there. And fed."

He can't have understood that correctly. The longer he stares, the more convinced he becomes that the creature is female, but it's doing the opposite of everything he knows. Females shelter a spark until it becomes a small thing. Maybe females like this one go looking for small things to shelter instead.

He glances despite himself at the body of the stag, surprised when the creature turns at once to cut out the liver and offer it to him. She may not be able to hear him, but she understands. Her...kindness?...may still be a trap, but he goes willingly, takes the food he's offered the way his sister would, with grace.

He edges back to join his sister again, but he doesn't miss being treated to that same satisfied look as the creature watches him eat. She _likes_ seeing them fed, likes being the one to have provided for them. Maybe, despite being a different thing entirely, she's just like him.

There's something in that thought that tugs on instincts half-buried under constant terror. It's not safe to be seen, but it's also not safe to be alone. They need food and shelter, and this female wants to give it. She wants to tear apart whoever took those things in the first place.

He licks his fingers clean as he weighs the dangers and glances down at his sister. _Do you want to see her den_? he asks, willing to take the chance. The creature could have killed them already if she'd wanted to. She fed them instead.

_She said you were good_ , his sister replies contentedly, cleaning her own hands with messy, broad-tongued licks. _The others all say you're bad_.

That's enough to decide him, though he doesn't know what will happen when he tries. He's never once managed to become quite the shape he wants.

The change creeps like the prickle of insect feet over his skin as stealthy black is traded for tender pink. The tugging inside the orbs of his eyes is his only warning as the colors of the world shift to something warmer and dimmer. His skull aches as he tries to hide his budding antlers, and he's not sure whether he entirely managed it until he looks again to his sister.

Grinning, she reflects his failure back to him, giggling as he sighs. Still not perfect, but close, and it was _easy_ , as if this is the form he's been meant to mimic all along.

The creature gasps, eyes wide with wonder when they look her way. Her lips part soundlessly when his sister tries to match the creature's long head fur and grows a short pelt of wispy curls.

"Do you have names?" she asks, strangely breathless.

He frowns helplessly at the question, understanding but not. She wants a way to summon them, to share the thing they know themselves by, but...he is himself. His sister is his sister. They've never needed anything else.

The creature seems to understand.

"Then you can be Mischa," she says with a hitch in her voice, eyes strangely bright. "If that's all right. And you," she says to him next, "you can be Hannibal."

She wears a look that reminds him of that odd flutter in his stomach, a look of possibilities and a longing for more.

Hope, he decides. That's hope.

As they leave the forest for the very first time, he lets their creature take his hand, trusts his sister's weight to her sheltering arms.

***

When Will takes them over the edge of the cliff, Hannibal doesn't let go. He doesn't shift his skin or claw for handholds in the rock on the way down; they're too far away to do any good.

It doesn't matter.

When they hit the water, when Will goes limp in his arms, Hannibal holds on.

He can't conceive of the possibility that he would ever let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things I am playing with here: 
> 
> 1\. ~~Cousin Nigel~~ Nyarlathotep has never had much to do with ~~Shirley~~ Shub-Niggurath in the past, as he prefers mind games with the humans and she prefers tramping the wilderness and a minimum of bullshit. Hannibal and Mischa are their only children together, so Hannibal's bizarre insistence on not eating his weaker sibling was kind of a surprise.
> 
> 2\. Nyarlathotep's kids are all about blending in and subtle machinations, so they're more likely to form alliances, especially when they're young. Shub-Niggurath's kids are more survival of the fittest: you put life in your belly and you live. Hannibal is what happens when you put the mind of a master manipulator in the body of a killing machine.
> 
> 3\. I tried not to write Shub-Niggurath as [Shirley](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138775/chapters/14067055) in this one, but ugh, I couldn't help myself. I _can_ help [writing crossovers I totally do not need to write](http://ciceqi.tumblr.com/post/176779491608/why-i-gotta-do-this-to-myself-so-i-totally-tried), though. Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously need to get better about pulling all the random stuff off tumblr. Argh.


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